


Just Long Enough to Walden It With You

by theaa



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Just to be safe, Like Slowwwww, Petyr is a Creep, Slow Burn, tw for previous sexual harassment and emotional manipulation, tw for ptsd and anxiety disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-03-01 14:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18801985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaa/pseuds/theaa
Summary: Sansa and Jon are both running. She from the bright lights of L.A, from her exploitative boss and her string of bad relationships. Sometimes, it feels like Jon's trying to outrun death itself. They both end up at the Stark lake house in October.





	1. Sansa

The driveway to the Stark lake house is slightly overgrown. This early in the morning there’s still a thick frost clinging to the grassy bank that rolls gently down to the lake’s edge and the sky overhead is overcast and cloudy, promising rain. Sansa’s never really visited outside of the summer season, even though Vermont in the fall is famously beautiful. Even in the grey morning light, the trees lining the road are a riot of color, burnishing reds and golds that Sansa can imagine sparkling on crisp clear days. It reminds her of Boston, of home. Her hands flex on the steering wheel as she follows the bend in the road and the house dips into view. She’s spent so much of her childhood here, almost every summer since she was a baby, really, but she started to dip out on the family trips when junior year rolled around. Her family’s annual lake house holiday was more of an inconvenience than anything else at that stage, and she made up increasingly evasive excuses so as to not be dragged into going. She hasn’t been here in years, but the house looks exactly as she remembers it. The white shiplap clad exterior shines out of the gloom as Sansa’s wheels crunch over the gravel drive. She lets the engine dawdle for a minute, looking up at the house and the wrap around porch, the fire pit, the tire swing that’s been there since Robb and Jon decided to build one as their summer project for Arya when they were about 16. More than ten years ago now. She’s surprised the rope hasn’t rotted through. 

 

She flips off the engine and hauls her suitcase out the backseat. She hasn’t bought much from L.A — just enough to fill a bag easy enough to carry across airports. She locks the rental car and drags her case up to the front door. Bending down, she fumbles behind the planter on the front stoop. For a few seconds, her fingers close on nothing but air and a lump rises to her throat and her breathing spikes — what if she’s come all this way and she can’t even get in? She’ll have to ring her parents, or drive to Boston, or worse maybe even just turn around go back again and pretend like she hadn’t even left, or— her fingers touch something cold and she’s able to swallow again. Straightening, she slots the spare key into the lock. She has to give the door a slight shove, but it swings inwards with a little encouragement and a loud creak. Inside the rooms are dark and she has to grope for the light switch, not quite remembering where it sits on the wall. When she finds it she can see all the way into the vaulted living room beyond. She kicks off her flats — a habit, she guesses — and pulls her case behind her, past the door that leads to the dining room and into the living room. There are sheets over the sofas and over the fireplace. The house is eerily quiet and when she drops her bag onto the floor the thud it makes sounds overly loud to her ears.

 

The lake house has never been peaceful — in the summer it was also overrun by the Stark kids — Arya running from the lawn outside into the kitchen to grab a snack, tracking dirt behind her. Bran yelling at his computer games in his room down in the hall. Robb and Jon starting water fights, running to dive into the lake, their shouts filtering through the glass doors. Rickon screaming with laughter when Robb picks him by the ankle and throws him into the frigid water. Ned, chuckling at everyone, stood out on the veranda, tending to the barbecue. Catelyn sitting in the living room, vainly trying to read a magazine, snapping whenever someone came into the house dripping water onto the hardwood floors. Sansa used to sit in the window seat balancing a book on her knee, looking out at her siblings’ mayhem, pretending that she didn’t want to join in. Her mother would catch her eye and shake her head with a wry smile and Sansa would smile back and go back to the book she’s not really reading, only to be distracted by their shouts just a few seconds later.

 

Her eyes start to sting. She can see Robb, gangly and sixteen years old, a mess of auburn floppy curls and ratty swim trunks, so clearly. She can see him sliding open the patio door and grinning at her, picking up the t-shirt he’d left on the arm of the sofa and grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, tossing her one in a gentle arc when she asks for one too. He’d been on the high school baseball team then. She still managed to drop the apple and bruise it.

 

It’s not even a bad memory. It’s a good one - full of sunshine and Robb’s easy smile. She shouldn’t cry over it. She shouldn’t.

 

Reaching for the white sheet on the sofa she yanks it off and a cloud of dust rises, making her cough. She pulls off the rest of them, folding them neatly and piling them up on the arm of the sofa to put in a cupboard later. She looks over to the kitchen, still dark, and realizes she didn’t stop for any groceries on her way from the airport. She hopes there’s stuff still in the cupboards — she’s tired from the drive and she doesn’t feel like going out again.

 

She picks up her bag again and almost turns left, to the room she and Arya use to share, but there’s no one else here of course, and her parent’s master suite has an ensuite she always used to beg to use. She turns towards it instead. She’s an adult now. She deserves the master bedroom, she tells herself. Besides, there’s no one here to tell her not to.

 

All she really wants to do is crawl under the covers and go to sleep, but there are no sheets on the bed so she has to retrieve some from the hall cupboard. Thankfully she’s able to recognize the fussy floral pattern as Catelyn’s choice and manages to locate matching pillowcases, and even a thick blanket, stashed on a high shelf, hardly ever used in the summer. She carries them all back to the bedroom and stands with her hands on her hips, assessing the situation. Her parent’s bed is huge and used to the tiny double in her cramped LA apartment, it takes her a few tries to successfully wrangle the huge king-sized bedding into place. When she’s finished she collapses on top almost immediately. She’s traveled through the night and lost three hours in time difference and it’s catching up with her. She doesn’t even get out her pajamas before getting into bed or take off her skinny jeans. She pulls her soft grey, very thin, (LA is warm all year round) cashmere jumper over her head and pulls her bra off too, sliding it out of her t-shirt sleeve. She just wants to sleep. Her parents blackout curtains block the weak morning light instantly when she finds the remote to close them. She sets her phone, turned off since she boarded the flight in LA, on the bedside cabinet and rolls away from it, sliding a hand between her cheek and pillow. Her body feels stiff and sore from travel and her mind keeps flicking back to LA. It’s a Sunday so nobody will have missed her from work yet. She wonders if Ramsey has tried to contact her, gone over to her flat and stood outside hammering on the door while nobody answered. Maybe Margaery has asked her to brunch and is annoyed she’s not texting back. Maybe Petyr has left her a long voice mail, giving her yet another pep talk to try and get her through the coming week. Has anybody realized she’s missing? Surely not yet. Her eyes are heavy. Sleep comes quickly after all.

 

* * *

 

When she wakes it’s pitch dark and it takes her a few seconds to reorientate herself. She has to scramble to flick on the light and winces against it when she does. The clock on the wall informs her its late afternoon - she's slept for hours, more than she usually grabs at night. She roots in her suitcase for her sweats and pulls them on and pads down the hall into the kitchen, her stomach grumbling. She had a blueberry muffin at the airport but nothing since. It takes her a while to find anything she can eat in the kitchen cupboards, pushing aside cans of beans and fruit and chopped tomatoes, bags of rice and pulses and lentils. Right at the back, half hidden behind some sauce sachets, are a couple of those dehydrated pasta and sauce packets. They're completely out of place in Catelyn's kitchen and Sansa suspects they're the work of one or other of her siblings, who snuck them in the grocery bags for when they couldn't be bothered to cook a snack on the rare occasions her parents left them to fend for themselves. She's very grateful for it now, and chooses a lurid yellow cheese and broccoli one and sets about making it. She sits at the breakfast bar to eat it, stodgy and artificially flavoured, too salty. But it's food, and that's enough. 

 

She used to love cooking when she was younger. She'd happily volunteer to help her mom in the kitchen whenever she was hosting dinner parties or for thanksgiving or Christmas and regularly used to come home from school and cook dinner for when her Dad got home, just because. It was satisfying, watching all the ingredients come together from nothing, being able to make her family smile. Robb used to love her lasagne, especially. He’d take it to work in a tupperware the next day and his colleagues would complain bout him stinking out the tiny shared staff kitchen. He never minded. In LA she ordered a lot of take always to eat at her desk, salads and buddha bowls and the like, and even at the weekend, too exhausted to cook, she'd end up doing the same. Either that or she'd eat out. She misses cooking. She misses a lot of things. 

 

After, she sets the plate and pan in the sink and looks around. Its not even evening yet but, again, there's no one around to set a timetable for her. She kneels down to have a look at the kitchen wine rack, half full with bottles. Down the bottom there's a bottle of champagne and some extremely dusty bottles of wine she's pretty sure have been there before she was born. Up the top however are some newer vintages. She picks one from just a few years ago, not much dust, a Pinot Noir whose label she recognises-- one of her mom's favourite — and retrieves the cork screw. She slides a wine glass from the kitchen cabinet and pours herself a small glass, watching the dark liquid splash up the sides. It tastes tart and tangy on her first sip. 

 

She cradles the drink between her fingers and moves back into the living room, to the bookshelf by the hallway, and runs her fingers over the cracked spines. They're a complete jumble - high school assigned reading that Arya and Robb battled through and then abandoned, her dad's history books and Bran's graphic novels, some of the teenage fiction she read too, and her mom's beloved classics. She trails her finger over all of them until she finds what's she looking for - her mom’s copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ , one of her own favorites. Clutching her wine and her book she moves back over to the window seat and settles into the cushions. Outside it’s started to gently rain and it taps quietly on the glass, a soft comforting sound. When it rains in LA it lashes it down. But LA feels very far away now. The bruise on her wrist has almost completely faded. The memory of Ramsey’s fingers tightening on her skin, dragging her through the double doors to sit for the staff dinner, is fuzzy around the edges too, dulled by the distance she’s put between them. God, but she should have done this months ago. 

 

She takes another sip of her wine and opens the first page. She can recall the lines from memory without really having to read them, but it makes her happy anyway. She gets lost in the pages, thoughts of Petyr and Ramsey and the Lannisters far, far away. When she's finished the wine she sets the glass aside and snuggles deeper into the cushions, pulling the throw over her knees. The alcohol has relaxed her muscles, made her feel a little lighter, and yet also sleepy again. She may have only woken up hours ago, but she can feel her eyes drifting again. Before, she'd just keep telling herself that she needed a decent night's sleep, but it was more than that; she always needed more than that. The exhaustion was bone deep and ever-present, never shaken off. Too much stress and noise and pressure and people wanting her to do this and be there and smile and look happy about it. And now, cocooned in the lake house, finally, no one can touch her. And maybe she can get all the sleep she's been needing.


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon arrives at the lake house unexpectedly. He and Sansa talk.

He doesn’t recognize the car on the drive. He pulls his truck into the empty space beside it and looks it over. It’s small and nondescript, a rental sticker showing in the rear window and a plate he doesn’t recognize. He lets Ghost out of the back and the dog jumps out happily, his tags jingling. Jon watches him carefully but the dog’s hackles don’t go up and he sniffs around at the undergrowth unconcerned. Jon reckons it must be a group of hikers, dodging parking fees, and resolves to leave a note under the wipers. He shoulders his duffel bag and whistles to Ghost, digging in his pocket for the key Ned had pressed into his palm with a smile and a solid clap on the shoulder.

 

The house and grounds are still, no hikers thrashing through the bracken. The day is damp with rain, and even in the short walk from the car to the front door Jon feels his shirt wet through.

 

It isn’t double locked. 

 

Jon pushes it open with a frown, a hand on Ghost’s collar, holding him back. The dog strains against him, whimpering a little, claws scrabbling on the wooden floor and Jon hushes him quickly. Something is off. Jon knows the house sits empty for most of the year — are there squatters? Local kids, who have managed to break in? 

 

He hasn’t been to the lake house in years, since his first deployment, but it’s still familiar to him, in the shadowy vague way in which everything from your childhood gets preserved, like something trapped in amber. It’s a weird feeling to be back, but Jon isn’t able to focus on that feeling — someone is in the house, he’s sure of it, the back of his neck prickles like it does when something is wrong when he’s out in the field. He lets go of Ghost’s collar slowly but hisses at him to stay to heel before moving slowly down the hall into the living room. Catelyn had told him that the lake house was shut up for the fall, but someone has moved the dust sheets on the sofas and there’s a lamp on his left emitting a warm light. He glances around the large room, scanning it like he’s trying to identify a threat. Despite his training, it takes him a second to see her.

 

She’s curled up under a blanket in the window seat, facing away from him. It’s her hair that gives her away, fiery red at the roots. Sansa. It must be. 

 

Ghost whines and Jon reaches to grip his collar again, making sure the dog doesn’t run up to her. She’s asleep — she hasn’t looked up since he came in. There’s a drained wine glass on the side, a book hanging from her fingertips, a few inches from falling to the floor. What is Sansa Stark doing here? Wasn’t she meant to be in LA? Working for the Lannisters’ law firm in the internship she’d scored after graduating college? Or so Arya had told him. God, but he hasn’t seen Sansa in years — perhaps since Thanksgiving two years ago, but even that was a quick and perfunctory meeting. He’d been on leave, and she only had a few days holiday and left even before he did. And before then? Maybe before he joined up. Arya was always complaining in their FaceTime conversations that nobody saw Sansa anymore, that she probably thought she was too good for them, away in glitzy L.A. Ned and Catelyn don’t talk about it much, but sometimes when the phone rings Catelyn looks disappointed when it’s not Sansa on the other end. He should have seen her at the funeral, but he hadn’t been able to get his leave approved, Robb not being his brother by blood or by marriage. It still hurts to think about that.

 

When he moves forward Ghost’s claws tap on the floor, too loud. He sinks to his knees and gently tugs the book — _Pride and Prejudice_ , he notes with an inward smile — out of her hands. Her breathing is even and quiet. He should wake her, but he finds he doesn’t want to. But why is she here? What if something has happened to her? 

 

He has to make up his mind. He sets a hand to her shoulder, uncovered by the blanket, pale skin where her t-shirt has slipped and gives it a gentle shake. Immediately Sansa’s eyes fly open and she visibly flinches, cringing away from him. Jon freezes with his arm outstretched. 

 

‘Sansa? Sansa, I’m sorry. It’s me — Jon.’

 

Her pale blue eyes — Tully eyes, the same as Robb’s — are wild with confusion, and even something that looks worryingly like fear. He can tell when she recognizes him — it’s like watching a shutter come down. She straightens up and pushes the blankets away from her chest. 

 

‘Jon? What are you doing here? No-one was supposed to be here —’

 

Jon shoves his hand into his trouser pocket and shrugs. ‘Your dad gave me the key. I was going to stay for a few weeks.’

 

She frowns at him. ‘A few weeks? Do you have leave?’

 

‘No. I — uh. I’ve been discharged,’ he admits, pushing his hands even deeper in his pockets. Sansa’s eyebrows jump up. 

 

‘Oh. Oh, I didn’t know,’ she says, almost to herself. Her eyebrows furrow and she gets to her feet, the blanket sliding to the floor. She’s taller than him now, even in her bare feet. Why hadn’t he noticed that a couple of years ago? She frowns down at him, almost looking worried.

 

‘I’ll… I’ll go somewhere else. You probably saw my car out front. I’ll drive into town and get a B&B, or something.’ She’s talking too quickly and Jon blinks at her, holding up a hand to get her to stop.

 

‘Sansa, what are you doing here? Do you have holiday? Why aren’t you with your parents?’ She looks away sharply, then bends to pick up the throw and starts to fold it, purposefully keeping her face away from him. He watches her, a growing feeling of disquiet tightening in his stomach. ‘They miss you, Sansa,’ he says softly. Her fingers fumble on one of the folds. 

 

She’s still slim, but there’s no trace of the adolescent roundness to her face now — not that there was much begin with her. Her cheekbones are high and prominent. Her hair — the red he’d recognized from across the room — is actually a mix of her natural shade and a muddier, darker brown, mixed in with the strands, heavier at the bottom. Something feels wrong.

 

He glances over her — a habit really, running over his team to check for injuries. The only skin he can see is her arms, her face, and neck, all unblemished, he notes, sick to be even thinking it. But she’s not answering his question, and it’s the explanation his mind settled on first. 

 

‘I’ll just pack up my things,’ she’s saying, ‘I really won’t take long.’ 

 

She sets down the blanket and moves to go round him, and Jon’s head is spinning. He catches her wrist in a loose hold with his hand, just to stop her brushing past him, but he doesn’t miss the way her eyes flash. He drops it quickly. 

 

‘Sansa. Don’t be stupid, you don’t have to leave. This is your family’s house. If anyone’s leaving, it should be me.’

 

He looks at her, skittish eyes and sweatpants and badly dyed hair, and frowns. ‘Do you want me to leave, Sansa?’ he asks quietly. 

 

She stills. ‘Please don’t tell my parents I’m here. They’ll want to know why and they’ll fuss over me, and I’m not— I’m not ready for that right now. Please don’t tell them. You can stay if you promise me that.’

 

She looks at him with wide, pleading eyes. There a hundred reasons why Jon should say no, why he should slip out the lake house and call Ned or Arya or someone, and then slip away himself and give her the space she obviously came here for until they arrive. Something is wrong, he knows, but he also knows its something Sansa will need her family for — and he’s not family. Not to Sansa. Years of growing up as her big brother’s charity case, a constant but somewhat irrelevant presence in her life, has told him that. But maybe he shouldn’t be the one making those decisions for her, either. He looks at her blue eyes, somehow pleading, but also flinty and hard at the same time. He sighs. 

 

‘I promise.’

 

Sansa visibly relaxes almost immediately. ‘Okay. Okay, good.’ she breathes, and then adds, ‘thank you,’ almost as an after-thought. Jon shrugs. 

 

‘I could still go get a hotel room or something.’

 

Sansa shakes her head. ‘No, no. This house is huge, right? Big enough for both us,’ she half-laughs. ‘Stay. I don’t mind. Really.’

 

Jon brings up a hand to rub at the pack of his neck, rocking back on his heels. ‘Okay, sure.’ 

 

Ghost has wandered away from their conversation and now brings up a paw to scratch at the patio doors. Jon winces and glances at Sansa. ‘Ghost too?’

 

‘Of course,’ she agrees easily, almost too easily. Just trying to placate him? ‘I’ll let him out.’ She opens the door and Ghost bounds happily out. It’s still raining outside, but Jon reckons he’s fed up of being inside after the car journey. There’s no fencing to the garden but Jon’s not worried - Ghost is the most loyal beast he’s known and would never run off for long. 

 

Sansa is watching the dog nose around the undergrowth, her arms hugged loosely around her stomach, and it seems like their brief conversation is over so Jon turns to pick up the duffel bag he’d dropped earlier. He still can’t believe she’s _here_. In Vermont, and not L.A, when none of her family have seen her for months on end. And now she doesn’t want to talk to them? 

 

Ned had told him it was fine for him to take the master bedroom, but even before he arrived to find Sansa there he was already planning on just taking the room he used to share with Robb when they were kids, up on the first floor. It’s smaller than others, up in the eaves, but it was a haven for he and Robb. They spent so many nights talking quietly in the dark until the early hours in that room; talking about the future and Robb’s sports career and Jon’s mom, and love and relationships, and _everything_. The first time Jon ever talked about joining the army was in that room. Robb hadn’t answered for a long while, and Jon had heard the rustle of bedcovers as he rolled away from him, Robb’s soft but firm voice saying ‘I don’t think you should do that’ before flipping off the light. How many times has he thought of that moment since? Maybe he should have listened, he thinks, not for the first time. 

 

It’s going to be painful sharing it without his best friend. Robb always left his baseball stuff lying around, the drawers were always half full of old and worn summer clothes that they only ever wore when they were here. Will all those things still be there? He hesitates at the foot of the stairs, hand flexing around the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

 

‘Jon.’

 

He turns, and Sansa is watching him. ‘Mom and Dad switched mine and Arya’s room into a spare room a while ago if you don’t — I mean, if you want that one instead. Besides, there’s no point for us to be spread across two floors, is there?’

 

Jon blinks at her but his fingers on the strap stop fidgeting and he pivots slowly towards the way she gestures. ‘Right,’ he says stiffly. ‘Thank you.’ She gives him a small smile and turns back to the garden and the soft rain. Jon carries his bag down the hall. A part of him still wants to go up and see his old room, a warped way of testing himself he guesses, but most of him is grateful he doesn’t have to. Not today, anyway. 

 

* * *

 

A sharp knocking noise startles him out of rearranging his drawers. Sansa is stood leaned up against the doorjamb, a small smile on her face. 

 

‘Hey.’

 

‘Hey yourself,’ he replies, straightening up. Ghost pads into the room from behind her and Sansa lets her hand trail through his fur as he passes and gives him a quick scratch on his ear. 

 

‘I don’t suppose you bought any food with you, did you? I literally arrived this morning and I haven't been into town yet.’

 

‘Uh, no, I didn’t, sorry. Honestly, I was just planning on ordering something in and going shopping tomorrow. Would that be okay?’

 

Sansa fidgets in the doorway but then nods. ’Sure.’

 

‘Is pizza good?’ 

 

She bites her lip, and instantly Jon remembers where she’s been living the past four years - pizza is probably not a regular part of her diet anymore. But he doesn’t think the local town has a Sushi place either, so there are limited options. He's just about to try and suggest something else when her mouth upticks into a small smile. 

 

‘Pizza’s good.’ A slight pause, and then, ’will you kick me out of the house if I ask for ham and pineapple?’

 

That startles a laugh out of him, genuine and loud and Sansa grins back at him. ‘I’ll have to think hard about it,’ he says.

 

Sansa just smiles shyly again and turns away. Jon goes back to unfolding his clothes and when he’s done sits down to google the number for the pizza place in town. He used to have the number saved to his phone, but that was a long time ago. He orders their pizzas (and has to promise an extra big tip for delivering so far out, as always) and hangs up to go tell Sansa. He finds her curled up again in the living room, reading. She sets the book aside though when she notices him come in, which surprises him. 

 

When he’d been unpacking he’d thought about what the two of them would do, living together in the lake house. Whilst he’s given himself a solid three weeks here to ‘unwind’ as Ned had put it, he has no idea how long Sansa intends to stay. If it was a short amount of time, maybe they’d just skirt around each other, like they always used to whenever they were here. Of course, now there are no Stark siblings to use as buffers, but he has Ghost, and there’s a whole lake to walk around and trails to climb, and if Sansa wants to be alone he can make sure he’s out of her way. It’s not like he came here to do much different anyway.

  

‘I ordered the pizzas. They should be here in half an hour.’

 

She looks up at him and tucks a piece of dulled red hair behind her ear. ’Great.’

 

The wine glass from before is back on the coffee table, freshly full, along with the already opened bottle. It’s just wine. People drink wine all the time, and it’s really none of his business. He doesn’t say anything. 

 

‘Did you, umm, want a drink?’ 

 

‘Uh, sure.’

 

He starts to move towards the kitchen to grab a glass, but Sansa beats him to it and gestures at him to sit down. ‘I’ll get it, don’t worry.’

 

Ghost flops down on the rug in front of the fireplace and sits with his head on his paws, already half asleep, obviously realizing that an evening walk is off the agenda. Jon slumps into an armchair, at a right angle with her sofa, and watches as she stretches to reach the extra wineglass. She's in skinny jeans now, and a grey sweatshirt, which he instantly recognizes as one of Robb’s when she turns around. He swallows the lump in his throat. 

 

Sansa pours him a glass and hands it to him, but her eyes follow where’s he’s tracing the team logo and she fumbles her fingers on the stem, nearly making them both drop it. ‘Sorry! _Shit_.’

 

Jon manages to rescue it before any liquid escapes though, and he shakes his head. ‘No, sorry, my fault just…’ He nods at the sweatshirt and Sansa fidgets and collapses back onto the sofa, pulling the sleeves down beyond her wrists.

 

‘Sorry. I hardly notice it anymore, to be honest. I wear it all the time. I don’t know… it helped at first,you know? Made him feel closer? But now I guess it’s just habit.’

 

She looks down at her lap and Jon takes a swig of wine. If they’re already talking about Robb, maybe he _does_ need this drink _-_ he definitely would like to be a little less sober. Otherwise, it’s just going to _hurt_. The wine is rich and coats his tongue thickly, but it’s definitely not the only thing making it hard to swallow. 

 

‘I understand that,’ he says. He closes his eyes for a second and then decides that, yes, he is going to tell her. ‘I have all his texts saved in a google doc. It sounds weird I know, but I was forever smashing my phone while I was in the army and I was petrified of losing them, so I copied and pasted them all onto a google doc online. I still read them sometimes.’

 

Sansa looks at him for a second, her eyes soft and big, but she doesn’t cry. ’I used to call his voicemail until Mom disconnected it,’ she offers. 

 

‘I think we all did that.’

 

A sad smile crosses before she pulls her knees to her chest and drops her chin on top of them. ‘He used to love this house.’

 

‘Yeah, he really did. It was his favorite place in the world.’

 

‘I used to hate it, you know,’ she mumbles.

 

‘I guessed. Wasn’t really your scene. You ducked out pretty much as soon as you got to high school.’

 

‘Sophomore year, actually. The year you left home.’

 

‘Long time ago,’ he says flatly, and Sansa nods. 

 

‘Plus, it was never gonna be the same after Robb. Nobody went the summer after. You know Mom had trouble getting into cars sometimes, for months after Robb’s crash?’ 

 

Sansa looks away, out the windows and down to the lake. The light’s gone now, and there’s just a flicker of illumination from the outside lamps. 

 

‘She still struggles, Sansa,’ he says quietly. ‘She walks a lot, now. Tells everyone it’s for her health.’

 

Her eyes cut back to his, hurt and hard. ‘And how would you know?’

 

He doesn’t want to press it, not when the look in her eyes is a clear warning, but he takes a careful sip of wine and shrugs slightly. ‘I’ve been back in Boston for the last couple of months, Sansa. I’ve seen it.’

 

The implication being, of course, that she _hasn’t_ been home. Not in a while. She blinks cooly at him and reaches for her own glass again. 

 

‘You weren’t at Robb’s funeral,’ she says, so calm and composed that it takes him a second to realize what she’s said, and then he flinches and has to set his wine glass down with an audible clink.

 

‘Sansa, you know I couldn’t get the leave,’ he replies, and there’s a crack in his voice already he's ashamed to note, a pleading tone that’s completely involuntary. ‘You know I tried.’

 

‘We missed you. Bran and Rickon and Arya. _Especially_ Arya.’

 

‘Sansa…I… don’t….’

 

She looks round at him again, and there’s pain in the hard lines of her mouth and the way she’s straightened up on the couch to level with him. He knows it’s just her lashing out, that he shouldn’t have made the comment about her mom, but it shakes him nonetheless.

 

He clears his throat and tries again. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there — I should have been there to help support your family, but no one wanted to be there more than I did. I threatened to walk, you know. Nearly got sanctioned for it. I _tried_ , honestly, I did.’

 

He sees the tension in her shoulders falter a little, and she shuffles her gaze back to her knees. ‘I missed you. I was so used to seeing you both together. I had to come back from college and everything was different, and Mom and Dad were trying to keep it all together, and you were out on tour, and Robb was… dead. And I wanted one of you to still be there, at least.’

 

Jon feels his stomach clench at the vulnerability in her words and pushes himself out of his armchair to drop down next to her on the couch. ‘I’m sorry, Sansa. I wish I’d been there. So much.’

 

Her eyes are watery now when she looks up at him, and Jon hesitates before opening up his arms. He feels stupid, thinking she might just turn away and reject him, like always, but then Sansa bites her lip and crawls forward a little, ungainly, to draw herself closer. She presses into his side and he closes his arms around her shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into her back, through the soft worn cotton of Robb’s old sweatshirt. He swears he feels her nuzzle into him a little, her hair tickling the underside of his jaw. Though she’s taller, she’s curled tight enough that she slots under his chin so neatly. He closes his eyes and tries to somehow, through some sort of osmosis or telekinesis, show her just how sorry he is that he wasn’t there to hold her, just like this, when she wanted him to. 

 

She straightens up first, brushing at her eyelashes to dislodge her tears, which he pretends not to notice. 

 

‘Is the pizza here yet?’ she asks, halfway between a laugh and a hiccup.

 

‘It shouldn’t be long.’

 

‘Okay, good.’

 

Jon leans forward and tops up her wine glass and hands it to her with an attempt at a smile. She takes it from him with an eye roll, but the corner of her mouth twitches. 

 

‘Thanks.’

 

‘It’s okay.’

 

It’s _not_ okay, and it won’t even really be, because Robb’s not here, but he’s glad he got to have that conversation with Sansa. It’d been a long time coming, he thinks. And now, finally, they’re in the same place long enough to talk about it. That’s progress he thinks.

 

Wasn’t that what his counselor told him to focus on? Progress? Small steps and successes? 

 

When the pizza arrives Jon tips the delivery boy heavily and carries them back into the living room. He goes to get them plates but Sansa insists she’s fine just eating out of the box, so Jon hands her the ham and pineapple pizza with a mock look of disgust and laughs when she sticks her tongue out at him, small and pink and pointy. It almost reminds him of Arya. 

 

It’s hot and greasy and he’s surprised Sansa’s eating it all, but she doesn’t seem to mind sitting with the hot cardboard in her lap, eating as neatly as possible so as to avoid getting anything on Robb’s jumper, and Jon starts to think that with the air cleared a little, maybe he doesn’t have to spend his time here avoiding Sansa after all.

 

He watches her dangle a particularly stringy piece of cheese into her mouth and neatly snap it off with her teeth, and chuckles.

 

‘You’re eating pizza with your fingers, and you still manage to do it in a lady-like fashion.’

 

Sansa smiles at him and the corners of her eyes crinkle a little. A real smile. ‘I’m choosing to take that as a compliment, so thank you.’

 

‘I meant it as one, actually.’

 

She blushes, just the barest hint of pink to her cheeks. 

 

‘Shut up and eat your pineapple free pizza, Jon.’

 

Tomorrow, he’ll ask why she’s here again. Not tonight. He’ll not ruin the rest of the evening. Tomorrow, he promises himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed. Let me know your thoughts/what you want to see/leave some emojis in the comments!


	3. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa (and Ghost) take a walk.

Sansa wakes up early to the blackout darkness of her parent’s bedroom. She’s not sure what’s woken her; there’s not a crack in the curtain, so it’s certainly not the barely dawning daylight outside. The blankets feel warm and heavy as she rolls over towards the door. It’s odd to know that just on the other side, a few meters away, is Jon Snow. Odd, but not, she admits, entirely unwelcome. Last night’s pizza and wine was almost a good time if she pushes their uncomfortable conversation about Robb to the back of her mind. And still, although she came to the lake house to be alone, she concedes that having Jon here makes her feel a little safer too. Not that she honestly believes herself to be in danger — but it’s comforting, somehow.

 

Her phone is still on the bedside table where she left it the other day. It’s Monday now, so warily she reaches out to turn it on. The screen lights up in the darkness and she squints as the texts and phone calls begin to roll in.

 

As she predicted, there are several messages from Margaery, slightly put-out in tone, full of question marks and failed weekend plans. There’s a couple too from Mya, her next door neighbor, just gently checking in after not seeing her around the apartment building for a while. Those ones make her smile, just a little.

 

There are three missed calls from Petyr, and a message asking her to ring him back asap, which she ignores. And there’s a message from Ramsey.

 

_I don’t know where the fuck you’ve been this weekend Sansa and frankly, I don’t care, but you better be in fucking work and at the benefit tomorrow evening. We’re waiting on the investment from the Freys and you know we can’t lose it, so wear something skimpy, will you? I’m picking you up at 7._

She reads over the message a few times before deleting it. The charity benefit gala was where the Lannisters shamelessly schmoozed rich investors for various causes and then proceeded to shave off funds for their own company, and absolutely everyone looked the other way. Sansa’s met Walder Frey before too, a ridiculously wealthy, cantankerous creep of a man, close to 70 years old, who had spent the entirety of their last meeting staring down the front of her dress. She shudders. Ramsey’s plan was obviously to dangle her in front of him again in the hopes that whilst pawing at her, he might dislodge some money from his stupidly deep pockets. She’s sure they’ll find an alternative method without her.

 

She runs the time difference through in her head and it’s still outrageously early back in L.A. When she doesn’t show for work she imagines she’s going to get a lot more messages. She turns off her phone and abandons it yet again on the table, before slipping on a cardigan and heading to the kitchen. The house is still, quiet and calm. Early morning sun filters through the windows and Sansa hovers in front of the sink, listening to the morning bird song, a melodic call, and answer. When was the last time she heard that noise in the morning? When she didn’t feel the weight of dread in her stomach whilst she gets ready, puts on her makeup?

 

There’s no noise from down the hall, so Sansa guesses Jon is still asleep, but she’s surprised Ghost isn’t angling for breakfast. She rummages in the cupboards for the coffee beans and fires up the coffee machine, listening to it bubble and hiss as she stares out onto the grass.

 

_I don’t know where fuck you've been and frankly, I don’t care._

Her knuckles, gripping the kitchen island, turn white. Ramsey’s face, twisted into a sneer, lips curled, eye’s mocking, floats in front of her. She remembers a hallway outside of the gala; Ramsey, disappointed with her lack of success with some of the patrons, the way he cornered her with a smirk, fingers playing over the slit in her dress, trailing along her thigh. _At least you’re useful for something_.

 

The front door bangs open and the scrabbling noise of Ghost’s claws bounding along the hallway startles her out of the memory. Jon appears behind him in running gear - a long sleeved form fitting top and leggings. His hair is caught and tied in a bun but fly away curls have escaped and are now slicked to his neck with sweat.

 

‘Hey,’ he says, seeing her when he looks up from kicking off his running trainers. ‘You’re up.’

 

‘So are you,’ she replies, surprised.

 

He shrugs. ‘Army habit - it’s hard to shake off. Plus, Ghost wanted a runabout, so. I grabbed some milk and stuff from town. We’ll have to go in and get real food later though.’

 

He holds up a grocery bag she hadn’t noticed and sets it on the counter. Sansa reaches in to find a pint of milk, some bread (whole-meal, unsliced) and a carton of free range eggs. She looks up at him sharply.

 

‘Did you run back with these?’

 

Jon’s lips twitch into a smile. ‘No, I took the car after my run. The store had just opened. I’m not an idiot, Sansa, I’m not gonna run with a carton of eggs in my hand.’

 

Suitably mollified, she turns away from him and back to the coffee machine. ‘Did you want coffee?’

 

‘Let me just jump in the shower first,’ she hears him reply.

 

‘Sure.’

 

She turns back with two mugs to find him already gone, but Ghost is sat on the kitchen floor, looking at her expectantly. Had she known Jon had a dog? She feels like she did, somehow, maybe through Arya, who was always closer to Jon anyway. Why hadn’t she remembered that Jon wasn't in the army anymore? She thinks back to yesterday. He said he’d been discharged. It can’t be a recent thing — and yet she didn’t know. She’s so out of touch with her family.

 

She crouches down and holds out her hand to Ghost, who hurries forward to sniff it, nuzzling into her. She spends a few minutes fussing over him. His coat is thick and impossibly soft and Ghost’s eyes slide closed when she tickles him behind his ears. She buries her face into his fur and Ghost sits there patiently, completely at ease.

 

Eventually, she picks herself off the kitchen floor and Ghost’s tail continues to wag, beating a rhythm on the tiles as she reaches for the things Jon picked up from the store. She’s just heating some oil in the pan (no butter, regrettably) and pouring in the egg mixture when Jon emerges from the hall.  Instead of sweat, his hair is now damp from the shower, and he’s in a soft pair of grey sweats and a loose black t-shirt and for a split second Sansa almost misses the tightness of his running top, and then blinks at herself.

 

‘Better?’ she asks, trying to cover anything that might have shown on her face.

 

‘Loads. Are you making breakfast?’

 

‘Isn’t that what you wanted when you gave me the food?’

 

Jon frowns at her. ‘Sansa, I wasn’t trying to suggest anything. I just bought it so we’d have some food in the house. I didn’t mean for you to cook for me.’

 

Sansa’s hand pauses in scrambling the eggs. She hadn’t even really questioned it. She’s just assumed that Jon wanted her to make him something. Joffrey liked her to cook for him. ‘Do you not eat breakfast then?’

 

‘No, no, I do,’ he says quickly.

 

‘Well, okay then.’

 

She busies herself with the pan. She feels Jon move into the kitchen, pottering around with something, and then he sets a hot mug of coffee down in front of her, milky, how she likes it.

 

‘Here.’

 

His voice comes from right next to her and she jerks her chin at the sound. Jon is looking at her as she takes the mug she’s offered. His pupils are wide, and it’s like he’s trying to get a read on her. She can smell the mint from his shower gel, see his hair curling as it dries. She grabs at a plate and slides the slices of toast onto it, heaping on the eggs. There was some ketchup in the cardboard that she thinks is still okay, so she sets that down too on the breakfast bar. Jon backs away and slides into the seat, picking up his fork.

 

‘Thank you, Sansa.’ His voice is gravely but genuine. It reminds her forcibly of her father, of home.

 

‘Thanks for the coffee.’

 

They eat together in silence for a bit. Sansa picks at her eggs, glancing up now and again to — what? To check that Jon is still eating? That she hasn’t poisoned him? To see if he’s watching her still?

 

But no, he’s happily shoveling his food into his mouth and cutting off bits of bread to feed Ghost under the table. She sips at her coffee and wonders how he knew to dump so much milk into it. He drinks his own black, which she thinks is fitting, somehow.

 

When he’s about done he puts down his fork gently. ‘Sansa.’

 

‘Hmm?’ She keeps her eyes trained on her plate, silently willing him not to ask anything, not now, even though she can practically hear the gears in his brain ticking over, struggling with what words to use.

 

‘Do you have any plans for the day?’

 

‘Huh?’

 

‘Do you have any plans for the day? I mean, no worries if you do, but I was going to take Ghost on a walk around the lake if you wanted to come. It’s not raining,’ he says casually, with a dip of his shoulder. At the sound of his name Ghost whines and wags his tail extra hard, pounding the floor. It tugs her mouth into a smile.

 

She thinks of her phone, lying on the side, and the absolutely zero time she’s spent considering what she’d actually do with her days when she got here.

 

‘That sounds good.’ Jon’s face breaks into a grin.

 

‘Shall we say in half an hour?’

 

‘Yeah, okay’

 

He reaches over to take her plate, collects their coffee mugs and carries them back round to the sink. ‘I’ll wash up, don’t worry. Go get ready.’

 

She slides off the bar stool and stands there a second, watching him turn on the tap, grab the dish soap. She can feel herself smiling. She turns and goes back to her room.

 

* * *

 

She finds him stood waiting by the front door, Ghost’s leash in his hand. Sansa looks down at his heavy work boots and then back to her sports trainers, the ones she usually wears in the gym. He doesn’t say anything, but Sansa thinks he’s just trying not to provide reasons for her to stay behind. ‘Maybe there are some old shoes in the cupboard,’ she mumbles.

 

She finds a grubby old pair of what she thinks are actually Bran’s trainers tossed in the closet and hastily slips them on, tying off the frayed laces as tight as possible.

 

‘Here, you should have this too.’

 

He’s holding a dark navy woolen coat out to her. ‘It’s too cold for just the jacket you’re wearing.’

 

‘Every day is summer in L.A,’ she says, reaching out to take it gratefully. It’s heavy, but it’s not too large when she slips it on. It smells of him, of musk and mint, and she can’t help but pull it tight around her. Sometimes, in the beginning, Joffrey used to give her his expensive silk-lined suit jacket to wear after a date. That didn’t last very long. This is better, she thinks.

 

‘You ready?’

 

‘Yeah.’

 

He whistles to Ghost, who, bored with waiting, had flopped down by the kitchen. He comes running around the corner, paws skidding on the floor, and Sansa laughs. Jon glances at her, smiling too.

 

He explains the route he has planned – not too long, he assures her – a loop around the lake basically, with a few diversions, and they set off, Jon’s hands pushed deep into his pockets, Ghost trotting alongside them both, occasionally scampering ahead and then stopping to make sure they’re still following. She lags behind a little, taking everything in.

 

Sansa pops the collar of Jon’s coat up against the slight breeze. The air is crisp and cool and feels sharp against her throat when she pulls in a deep breath, so different from the oppressive mugginess of L.A. It doesn’t make sense, because California is sunny and bright, but everything here sparkles, she thinks. The undergrowth is jewel green, the lake a deep foamy blue.

 

Up ahead Ghost seems to catch the scent of some animal or other and dives off the path. Jon lets out a groan.

 

‘You have no idea how hard it is to keep his white coat clean. Guaranteed I’ll have to give him a clean when we get back later now.’

 

Sansa chuckles. She can well imagine Ghost’s pristine fur dark with mud and what a nightmare it must be to rinse off.

 

‘How long have you had Ghost now?’

 

Jon falls into step beside her. ‘About a year.’

 

‘Did you get him after you let the army?’

 

‘Yeah. My, uh—my therapist thought it might be good for me – having something, someone to look after, to keep me motivated, after, you know,’ he answers, his voice very even, hands still deep in his pockets. It’s a more revealing answer than she expected though and Sansa’s momentarily caught off guard. Jon has a therapist? That makes sense, she guesses. She can’t imagine going through the army and _not_ needing to talk to someone about your experiences, the stuff she’s sure he’s seen. Jon continues trudging along and he doesn’t stop to glance at her or try and read her expression. She doesn’t think before she opens her mouth again.

 

‘Do you miss it? The army?’

 

There’s a long beat of silence, and Sansa thinks she’s said exactly the wrong thing – but she doesn’t know if it’s stupid to think he misses such an extreme, dangerous, horrific job, or stupid to think he didn’t miss something that used to be his entire identity. When they were younger, about a year before he joined up, it was all Jon talked about. How he was going to go and _prove_ _himself_. Although who or what he was trying to prove, Sansa never knew. Back then she didn’t particularly care either. Jon joining the army was just something that _happened_ , and then she went to college and moved to L.A and things got complicated in her own life. She used to catch snippets of news about the forces and think about him sometimes, always a fractured thought, never for very long; enough to be momentarily worried but not enough to text Robb to ask whether he’d heard from him. Although maybe she should have saved all her worrying for Robb, anyway.

 

But no. She catches herself. That isn’t fair. To anyone.

 

Jon looks uncomfortable. He twists Ghost’s lead in his hands and then shrugs.

 

‘I dunno. Sometimes? I miss my mates, I guess…’ He trails off and stares out into the trees to the right and Sansa thinks he’s looking for Ghost until he pulls in a deep shaky breath. ‘I miss knowing what I was doing. What my _purpose_ was.’

 

‘Oh.’

 

It’s a lackluster response. She hardly knows how to answer – but she gets it. Oh, God does she understand. She misses knowing what she was doing too, misses being _sure_ of her life, so much. It’s why she’s here now.

 

Jon breaks the awkward silence with a deep, dry chuckle. ‘Sorry…. I’m always bringing down the mood. My army mates Edd and Pyp and Grenn, they were always ribbing me about it. They called me ‘broody.’

 

This makes Sansa snort. ‘Well, I mean, you _did_ brood a lot when we were younger. If Robb got you into trouble, or if Arya beat you at something…. You’d sit on the porch with a book and just _sulk_.’

 

‘Hey! I seem to remember I wasn’t the only sitting out most of the games and stuff.’

 

‘That was different. I was just stupid when I was younger. I thought I was too cool.’

 

‘ _I_ always thought you were cool.’

 

Sansa stumbles a tiny step at that and her cheeks flush. Jon smiles at her, small and crooked. Their footsteps fall into sync for a bit, and they climb up to an outcrop over the lake. Ghost appears in front of them and sure enough, he’s covered in dirt, which makes Jon groan. When they get to the top Sansa stares out across the water. She can see the lake house from here and the two dots of her and Jon’s cars parked out front. When she turns back, beside her, Jon’s picked up a stick and is tossing it a few feet in the air to Ghost. He holds it out to her.

 

‘You wanna try? Throw it long, back to the path, and see if he can find it.’

 

She throws it as hard as she can and Ghost bounds happily away after it, crashing into the undergrowth.

 

‘I quit my internship,’ she says, shoving her hands into the pockets of Jon’s coat.

 

‘I figured it was something like that… You okay?’

 

Sansa heaves in a deep breath and hunches into the coat collar, still musky, the air in her lungs still crisp and clear. ‘Not really. But I reckon I will be.’

 

Ghost chooses that moment to come hurtling back, the stick clamped firmly between his jaws. He deposits it neatly at her feet and Sansa crouches down to fuss over him, crooning encouragements, which Ghost pants happily at. Jon takes the stick from her again and lobs it, a strong swift smooth movement, further than she managed.

 

‘He’ll never find that!’

 

He’s cleverer than he looks,’ Jon laughs. ‘C’mon, let’s go home.’

 

* * *

 

Jon runs out for groceries again because neither of them can be bothered to do a full shop after their walk. Sansa tries to go instead and then offers money when he insists, but in the end, she settles that they’ll sort out the finances later. He comes back with pasta and some vegetables and other stuff which Sansa puts carefully away in the kitchen. She busies herself afterward by making them both a sandwich for tea after Jon said he wasn’t particularly hungry, humming as she does so, snatches of songs under her breath in a way that people used to tell her was annoying. She carries Jon’s food to his room after, knocking softly before his low voice tells her to come in.

 

He’s sat on the bed; laptop open on his knees. ‘Hang on, Tormund,’ he says, looking to his screen.

 

The other voice in the room pauses. Sansa holds out the plate to him, and she shouldn’t be nosy, but she tries to see who’s he talking to anyway as she comes closer. ‘I made some food,’ she says, although it’s pretty obvious.

 

‘Ah, you’re a gem. Thank you.’

 

Her curiosity is just about to get the better of her when the laptop voice, a heavy northern burr, pipes up again.

 

‘Have you got a girl in the room Snow? Been holding out on us?’

 

Jon rolls his eyes and then turns the laptop screen towards her slightly. A large, bearded red-haired man grins at her.

 

‘Tormund, this is Sansa. Robb’s sister.’

 

He glances up at her, an apology in his eyes. ‘Sansa, this is my friend Tormund.’

 

She waves awkwardly and Jon’s friend lets out a bark of laughter. ‘Oh, so now I see the appeal of disappearing into the woods for a while, Snow.’

 

Jon cringes and immediately pulls the laptop back around. ‘Tormund, please shut up. Otherwise, I’m never coming back to The First Men ever again.’

 

The man snorts. ‘Don’t be stupid. Where else are you going to drink?’ And then a bit louder. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Sansa. I’d love to continue this face to face, but apparently Jon’s the jealous type.’

 

Jon moves to slam the laptop shut and Sansa, smiling despite herself, backs away. ‘No don’t,’ she says. ‘He’s only teasing. I’ll leave you to chat.’

 

From the laptop again comes Tormund’s slightly tinny laughter. ‘He’s a _very_ easy target for teasing.’

 

This makes Jon growl a little and the tips of his ears have turned red, which Sansa recognizes from when they were younger. Whenever the boys got caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing – like helping Arya break her curfew – or on the very rare occasions when Jon got angry, it was always a tell-tale sign. Apparently, it stretches to blushes too. Interesting that she never knew that before. She wonders what Jon remembers about her from when they were younger.

 

‘Tormund,’ Jon warns. ‘I’ll ring you later.’

 

There’s a loud chuckle. ‘Sure thing, little crow.’

 

A beep sounds as they disconnect and there’s a sharp snap as Jon closes the laptop lid. When he looks up he looks guilty.

 

‘I’m sorry about that. He means well, I promise.’

 

Sansa shrugs. Surprisingly, the comments didn’t really bother her. She can tell they weren’t maliciously meant. ‘He doesn’t look like an army man,’ she comments.

 

Jon snorts. ‘Tormund? God, no. He runs a bar back in Boston. Sometimes I help out with a couple of shifts.’

 

‘Oh, I see. He seems fun.’

 

‘Mad as a hatter, but yeah, he is.’

 

‘You told him you were coming here?’

 

‘Yeah, I had to refuse a few days' work. It’s okay, he understands. He’s a good guy.’

 

‘I didn’t know you worked in a bar.’ Jon just shrugs again. It’s a stupid comment to make – she didn’t know, _still_ doesn’t know, a lot about Jon’s life.

 

‘You’ll have to show me to the bar sometime when we’re back in Boston,’ she offers instead.

 

That makes him smile up at her, the biggest smile from him that she’s seen since he arrived, one that starts slow and then stretches from ear to ear. A surprising sliver of sunshine, she thinks, in his normally _broody_ face. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. I think Tormund would too.’

 

Sansa leaves Jon’s room thinking about the shadowy near future they’ve agreed upon. Boston. Not L.A. She supposes it was inevitable, moving back home. It’s not like she’s going to be able to stay on the west coast even if she wanted to, and she _definitely_ doesn’t want to.

 

So, Boston it is then.

 

Eventually. Not just yet, though.

 

She heads back to her room and fires up Netflix, picking something random and mindless to entertain her before an early night. Her limbs ache slightly from the walk and she should get up and take a shower.

 

Her phone, lying on the side, feels like a magnet. Her fingers itch to turn it on, but she knows she’ll just find more abuse from Ramsey, more pressure from Petyr. She’s sick of it. Sick of the whole thing. Sick that she ever thought that working for the Lannisters was _ever_ a good idea. Instead, she found that their company was corrupt and complicit, that the people they represented were always guilty and always terrible, but she was forced to help build their cases anyway, forced to wheedle money to fund their ‘pro-bono’ work, or rather just fund Cersei and Tywin’s end of year bonuses. Forced to be a witness to their dirty work.

 

She thinks about how many illegal cases she’s been an accomplice to and she feels sick, right down to her stomach. But she also feels _scared_.

 

The creak of her bedroom door opening makes her freeze, fingernails biting into her duvet, but it’s only Ghost, nosing into the room. He pads over to her and sniffs at the hand she stretches out, leaning into the ear scratch she awards him.

 

‘Why aren’t you with Jon, huh?’

 

Ghost just whines contentedly at her and then flops to the floor on the rug beside her bed. Jon has brushed out his fur so it’s shining and white again, still impossibly soft. He’s a comforting presence. She supposes she should get him to go back to Jon’s room, but she doesn’t really want to. She feels safer with him near. She falls asleep with her laptop pushed aside, Ghost ear’s slightly pricked, even in sleep, beside her.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy. This is it, folks. Godspeed to everyone for the finale tonight. And remember, we'll always have fanfiction. Speaking of which, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Let me know your thoughts and maybe we can ignore the absolute chaos fandom will inevitably be in tomorrow together. 
> 
> I'm still theawants on tumblr x


	4. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ghost abandons Jon on a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys. The end of the show really threw me for a loop and this modern au got really hard to write, considering all I wanted to read/write were fix-it fics. Because boy does that finale need fixing. I found this chapter challenging, so I hope it's still ok.

Jon crouches to tie his laces on the porch and looks out across the rolling mist that drifts across the surface of the lake. The air is full of a fine mizzle, sparkling in the morning light. Behind him Ghost puts a paw onto the damp deck and then seems to think better of it, letting out a whimper. Jon twists to scratch his ears.

 

‘Don’t think I didn’t see you sneaking out of Sansa’s room this morning. Prefer the warm and toasty house do you?’

 

Ghost cocks his head to the side but makes no move to come further out the door. Jon laughs. ‘Et tu Brute?’

 

He straightens up and leaves Ghost to do as he likes and starts to jog, slow and steady, building his pace, taking a similar route to the walk with Sansa the day before. He has to make sure not to slip on the fallen leaves and compacted mulch of the path’s floor, but picking out a safe route keeps his mind occupied with something other than the ache in his muscles, the tight air in his lungs. About halfway around he comes out at the clearing where they had paused yesterday, and he remembers Sansa’s quiet admission about her internship.

 

It’s something he’s sure has been a long time coming. He wants to sit down and talk to her about it, but he’s not sure how to go about it without simply making her shut down, as is her way – prickly and defensive. Not that he doesn’t understand that. How many times has his therapist told him to be more open to his emotions? He can see him now, Davos Seaworth, with his kindly eyes and wise wrinkles, peering over the top of his wire frame glasses. He owes Davos a lot. Is it stupid to think that he could help Sansa too?

 

He runs the rest of his route and stumbles up the steps to the porch again. Ghost is nowhere to be seen. He slumps into one of the rocking chairs and feels the burn in his muscles start to calm. His breath is still coming in pants, his heart hammering in his chest under the thin material of his running shirt. He raises a palm to feel it against his fingertips, the slightly erratic pump of his blood beneath his skin. He pulls in a few slow breaths and tips his head back in the chair, shutting his eyes.

 

It’s the wrong thing to do. All it takes is one brief millisecond of the velvety blackness behind his eyelids and the feel of his staccato heartbeat and his chest begins to seize. Panic washes over him, cold and intense. He can’t re-open his eyes. His heart is hammering over time, but it doesn’t help, he still feels like he’s back in that medical tent, feeling the shock of excruciating pain from the defibrillators searing through his body, the jolted gasp of awakening. He’d been dead for ten whole minutes and there had been…. Nothing. He remembers nothing. Nothing around him and sinking through him and being able to say nothing and nothing, nothing, nothing….

 

He hasn’t had an attack like this in a while. He’s struggling to kick into Davos’ advice. He’s supposed to recite the old kings and queen of England, from start to finish, in attacks like this, something that requires his attention, chosen because of his childhood obsession, but his brain keeps skittering away. Until he feels a cold nose press onto the skin of his thigh, providing enough of a physical distraction that Jon’s able to kick his brain back into gear.

 

It takes him a few attempts but once he’s listed the monarchs off twice, his breathing is back under control and he feels lighter again, the crushing feeling gone.

 

Goddamn, did he really think, that just because he was here in Vermont, that he'd be able to avoid this? That it'd be easier to control?

 

When he gets to his feet he’s still a bit shaky, but Ghost keeps close to his side and follows him as he makes his way to the kitchen. He leans down and drinks straight from the tap, too tired to bother to find a glass. The water mixes with cold sweat to soak the front of his running shirt. He stands there for a few seconds, counting his breaths, proving to himself that he’s alright, still. The house is quiet and he doesn’t think Sansa is awake yet.

 

He heads to his room to douse himself in a quick cold shower, feeling the icy water slice through the lingering tremble in his limbs, shocking him back awake. After he dresses in his warmest clothes and heads back into the kitchen. Ghost has disappeared again, and the kitchen is still empty.

 

Jon sets out his ingredients – a pack of flour he’s grabbed from a cupboard, milk, eggs. His pancakes aren’t the large fluffy kind that Catelyn used to make for the first breakfast every year they came down for the summer, but Jon hopes Sansa won’t mind. He makes drop scones instead, misshapen and small, but he fries them off in batches and creates quite a stack. He flicks on the coffee too and puts out the punnet of blueberries he picked up yesterday at the store, as well as a bottle of syrup, only slightly crystallized.

 

He’s just getting worried about Sansa not appearing – maybe she’s out? – when he hears a door down the hall creak, and Sansa herself slips into the room, still in her pajamas – tartan checked flannel trousers and an old, oversized Red Sox tee with a faded, rubbed out logo, which definitely isn’t hers. It might be Robb’s, or her Dad’s. Hell, it might even be his. Their laundry used to get mixed up regularly as kids, and he knows for a sure fact that Arya stashed away at least a few of his hoodies and shirts over the years. Of course, there’s no way of knowing for sure if it _is_ his shirt, but even the idea that it might be makes Jon feel an unmistakable frission of.... _something_ in his chest. Something that he doesn’t want to, _refuses to_ , put a name against.

 

Sansa stifles a yawn as she approaches the breakfast bar. As Jon suspected, trotting behind at her heels is Ghost.

 

‘I hope he didn’t disturb your sleep last night.’

 

Sansa gives him a soft smile, still sleepy, her hair slipping from a loose bun at the base of her neck to frame her face. ‘No, no, he was fine. I liked having him there. I was just worried you’d miss him.’

 

‘Well, he did abandon me on my run this morning as well, which stung a little. Just tell me you didn’t let him up on the bed.’

 

She winces at him and Jon pretends to sigh with exasperation. Sansa immediately protests. ‘I couldn’t very well stop him! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your dog is very _big_. He practically pushed me onto the floor.’

 

‘Yeah, that’s why I don’t usually let him up there,’ Sansa looks like she’s genuinely going to apologize, so Jon cuts her off, smiling. ‘No, I‘m only teasing. He ignores me too, it’s fine. He’s very selective over the commands he obeys and I’ve never been able to do anything about it.’

 

Sansa shakes her head at him, smiling despite herself, and then takes in the plate of stacked pancakes Jon has set in the middle of the counter.

 

‘You made breakfast?’

 

‘Turnabout is fair play.’

 

‘Mom always used to make pancakes for breakfast here, the first day.’

 

‘Yeah, I remembered. They’re not as good. I tend to make tiny ones, see. But hopefully, they taste fine.’

 

Sansa straight up beams at him, the brightest smile he’s seen since he arrived, and the sheer sunshine she unleashes is enough to make him blink, enough to light up the dull grey sky outside the windows. Jon watches, a little stunned, as she drags the plate of pancakes nearer to her and spears a couple with her fork. She drizzles them with syrup and digs in.

 

‘These are great, Jon. Thank you.’

 

‘Don’t get used to it,’ he says, his voice sounding even more gruff than usual to his own ears. ‘When we go grocery shopping, I’m picking up cereal.’

 

‘That’s okay. For future reference, I like Honey Nut Cheerios.’

 

That checks out. Sansa always did have a sweet tooth. He lets out a bark of laughter. ‘Duly noted.’

 

Jon nibbles on his own pancakes, but the sight of Sansa in front of him is distracting. There’s something just inherently domestic about cooking breakfast for someone, and he’s not oblivious to the usual events that take place before a scene like this. He never got that with Ygritte. Their moments together were quick and rushed, mostly, and as far as Jon can remember they never shared a breakfast together that wasn’t from catering, steamed scrambled eggs, and dry toast and porridge thick enough to stand a spoon in, exactly the same as the ten other people sharing their table. Privacy was something in severely short supply. He regrets that, that he never got to bring her coffee in the morning, never got to do something like this.

 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and takes a deep scalding gulp of his coffee. Sansa glances up at him and smiles, still in the Red Sox shirt, obviously. Jon pushes away his plate.

 

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ she asks quickly.

 

‘No. Sometimes I’m not after my runs,’ he says, which is utter nonsense, as mostly, running just increases his appetite. Sansa just nods at him and finishes off her own plate. She leans back when she’s done and swirls a finger in the leftover syrup pooling on her plate. Jon watches as she pops the finger in her mouth, sees a peak of her tongue and puckered lips. He turns hastily away to dump the crockery in the sink, his shoulders tense.

 

Sansa’s pretty. No, pretty isn’t the word for it – she’s stunning, really. A beauty that somehow seems to walk the line between softness and regal elegance. He’s not _blind_.

 

And yet, he honestly didn’t think it would be something that really bothered him. Maybe Tormund’s conversation from last night is getting to him, all the teasing. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been alone with a woman for…. Jon flicks on the tap, trying to think… since Val? But that was a one-time thing, just before he was discharged, a short and desperate attempt at connection for both of them when neither were in a place healthy enough to start anything. And he hasn’t been with anyone, even gone on a date since he’s been back in Boston, despite getting slipped phone numbers on the back of card receipts regularly when he works the bar at The First Men.

 

Gods, maybe he should have taken someone up on their offer. But he admits to himself that the concept of casual dating frightens the hell out of him. Ygritte was never really a normal relationship, and he doesn’t know anything else.

 

He washes the dishes mechanically. Sansa comes up beside him. ‘I can do that,’ she says softly.

 

‘No, no, you’re alright. Here, give me your plate.’

 

She hands it over slowly, frowning at him. ‘Are you okay? Did you have a good run this morning?’

 

Jon thinks of his episode on the porch. Maybe that’s what has set him off kilter, got him feeling so unstable. He nods at her anyway.

 

‘Yeah, yeah. It was good, thanks.’

 

Sansa gives him a tiny smile. ‘Well, I’m going to wash up. It’s pretty miserable outside. Did you have stuff to do?’

 

‘Life admin stuff,’ he shrugs. ‘Not much.’

 

She pulls a dramatic grimace at that. ‘Ugh, don’t remind me. I mean, I’m currently unemployed.’ Her tone is flippant, but Jon sets down the tea towel in his hands and turns towards her.

 

‘Have you spoken to your bosses in L.A?’

 

A flicker of a shadow crosses her face before Sansa carefully blinks it away. ‘Not really,’ she says vaguely. ‘I’ve mostly been keeping my phone off.’

 

‘You’re going to have to talk to them eventually, Sansa.’ He attempts a gentle tone, but she still snaps at him, like he knew she would.

 

‘Yeah, _eventually_. Right now, I’d just make them angrier. And that’ll make it worse.’ The shadow from before returns, and he sees Sansa’s lip begin to tremble, though she’s trying to hide it. ‘I mean, it’s pretty obvious I’ve quit,’ she continues, voice pitched much higher than usual, ‘and everyone’s probably in uproar.'

The stoicism she's been exuding for days starts to crack. She heaves in a deep breath, and then it's as if something inside her just snaps, and then her face  _crumples_. She looks five years younger, instantly. 'Oh god,' she gasps, 'I mean, right now they don’t know where I am, and if I phone them they’ll, I don’t know, be able to trace the call, and they’ll know I’m here, and I can’t let them know that, and…’ she trails off, her eyes wide and a little wild, surprising even herself with how worked up she is. 

 

Jon stares at her, recoiling at the barely hidden panic in her voice. ‘Sansa, what _happened_ back in L.A?’

 

Her eyes drop back down the floor and her shoulders lift in a concealed hiccup of breath. ‘The internship wasn’t what I thought it was,’ she says, still looking determinedly at the kitchen tiles. ‘The Lannisters are…. a terrible company. Full of terrible people.  I just wanted out. But they’ve helped pay off some of my college debt, and it’s complicated, and…’ she heaves in another breath, and Jon brings up his hands to settle on her shoulders, trying to gentle her, thumbs rubbing in the soft cotton on her shirt in an attempt at a comforting gesture.

 

‘If it’s money, you know your parents will be able to manage it – and you can sort it out with your father later.'

 

She nods, a tiny jerk of her head, but doesn’t look up. Jon strokes his thumbs over her shoulders again and he hesitates, but he has to ask.

 

‘Why would you say they’d trace your call? Why are you worried about them knowing where you are, Sansa?’

 

When she says nothing he takes a step closer and does the only thing he can think of to try and make her feel safer, because it’s suddenly very clear that she doesn’t feel _safe_ at all. He wraps his arms around her and draws her into a loose hug, not too tight, bringing up a hand to stroke her hair, in what he hopes is a soothing manner. He feels the puff of her breath against his collarbone and hears her shaky inhale.

 

‘It’s okay,’ he says quietly. ‘You can tell me.’

 

‘They purposefully take on guilty clients… and then if things don’t go their way, they fix evidence or present false testimony or whatever. And they’re so _good_ at it. And I’ve helped them do it. I’ve _helped_ them. They’re going to want to make sure I don’t report them. But how could I, when I’d just get myself in trouble as well?’

 

She hiccups in another breath, on the brink of tears, but too tense to even cry properly. Jon automatically tries to hold her closer, muttering hushed reassuring sounds into her hair.

 

‘Okay, okay. Sansa. Shhh. Shhhh, honey. We’ll figure it out.’

 

Jon’s mind is whirling. He can’t believe Sansa’s been trapped in L.A dealing with this all on her own. He was never the Lannisters’ biggest fan, but that was because he thought they were an arrogant, self-serving family, not _corrupt_. Sansa is still breathing softly into his shoulder and her arms have come around to slide around his waist too. How long has it been since someone held her like this? He continues stroking her hair, soft beneath his fingers.

 

‘We’ll figure it out,’ he says again, firmer, already trying to draw up a plan in his head.

 

‘Okay,’ Sansa murmurs softly, before eventually pulling away, her hands releasing their grip in his sweatshirt.

 

Her eyes are sparkling, but there aren’t many traces of tears. She gives him a rueful, watery smile. ‘Sorry for freaking out on you like that.’

 

‘Hey, no, don’t apologize.’

 

‘I should go and shower.’

 

‘Ok, sure.’ She goes to walk out of the kitchen, but Jon reaches forward to touch her wrist and she swings back to look at him, an eyebrow raised.

 

‘Don’t freak about it, okay? I meant what I said. We’ll figure it out.’

 

She smiles at him but it’s small and doesn’t touch her eyes. She doesn’t look like she believes him.

 

‘Yeah. Thanks for breakfast, Jon.’

 

He watches her go. God, he thinks to himself, what a pair both of them make. Perhaps they were naive to think that a few weeks away from everyone at the lake house would be enough to fix anything.

 

Himself, he’s just about given up on.

 

But not Sansa, though. He won’t give up on Sansa.

 

 

 


	5. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon talk. Yes, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, I'm sorry this update took SO LONG. I'm in the middle of writing a thesis at the moment and last week was helping organize and run some university events. The updating on all my fics will probably be very sporadic because of my thesis, I can only apologize. But I hope you like the update.
> 
> I'll update the tags, but TW for PTSD and character death again

Sansa flicks the shower on and waits for the water to heat, stripping out of her pajamas numbly. She didn’t mean to flip out on Jon in the kitchen at all, but she’d tentatively turned her phone on that morning only to be met with a barrage of messages and phone calls from Ramsay, Petyr and Joffrey, but also Cersei. She knew it was bad if Cersei was taking time out of her day to try and ring her herself. She’d swiftly turned it off again and shoved it under her pillow, but even from inside the ensuite bathroom with a tiled wall in-between, she can feel the pull, like eyes on the back of her neck.

 

She makes sure the spray is almost uncomfortably hot before she steps under and lets the water cascade over her. It’s like the heat draws out the ugly, crawling feeling in her gut. She truly didn’t mean to tell Jon. It feels like simply passing the burden, and how is Jon meant to help her? His promise was sweet and well-intentioned, but Sansa understands better than he does the real position she’s in. No one can protect her now.

 

She soaps her hair mechanically and steps out only when her skin is beginning to flush red under the steam. She pulls on an oversized jumper and leggings and hesitates before stepping back out of her room, but that would be an act of cowardice, she realizes. Even if facing Jon makes her feel uncomfortable.

 

It’s raining again, a steady downpour that mists the windows. Ghost is curled up by the fire, which is flickering dimly in the grate. Sansa knows that Jon must have lit it, although it’s strange seeing the fireplace working – it’s always much too hot in the summer.

 

Jon himself is sat on the couch, his laptop in his lap, a mug of coffee steaming on the table in front of him. She has to force herself to keep on walking into the room, but she’s rewarded with Jon’s smile when he jerks up his head to see her.

 

‘Hey. How’re you feeling?’

 

She shrugs and flops down next to him. ‘What’s that you’re looking at?’

 

Jon seems to accept the subject change without much fuss and spins the laptop towards her. ‘Apartment hunting,’ he says flatly. ‘Probably can’t live in your parents’ basement forever.’

 

Sansa’s eyebrows furrow. ‘You’ve been living in the basement? But that’s not like even…. A proper room.’

 

Now it’s time for Jon to shrug. ‘The couch pulls out. Bran and Rickon had to give up their games room, so I’m grateful.’

 

Sansa shakes her head a little. ‘You weren’t offered the spare room? Or even Robb’s….’

 

She tails off and Jon smiles a little sadly at her. ‘I think we both know I’d never take Robb’s old room.’

 

‘It shouldn’t be a mausoleum, Jon.’

 

‘I know, but it’s not up to me. I’d never take that decision away from your parents. They need time, Sansa. They’ll get there.’

 

‘So you took the basement?’

 

‘So, the basement. It has its own door and key, so I could keep out of your parents’ hair. It was going okay, I guess.’

 

‘So what made you come out here?’

 

Jon grimaces and looks back at his laptop, fingers tapping at the keys before he sighs. ‘Life since the army’s not been… easy, I guess. I think Ned just thought I needed a break.’

 

‘A break from what?’ When Jon doesn’t look up, Sansa almost feels guilty for pushing it, but she wants to know, wants to understand. ‘Aren’t there charities and programs set up for vets?’ She knows she sounds naive and uninformed, but she makes herself ask anyway.

 

Jon lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. ‘Yeah, there are. And I’ve used some of them. It’s just... difficult. It’s just a big thing. And I’ve been trying _really_ hard, but I’m still…’

 

He chokes up and the rest of his sentence is lost. Automatically, Sansa moves to rest a hand on his arm. Jon looks down at where here palm rest, just under the cut of his sleeve.

 

‘I had a girlfriend,’ he says suddenly. ‘Did you ever hear about that?’

 

Sansa frowns and lets her hand on his arm slip away, confused. ‘I think, maybe?’ she says although she’s not sure. She’s let so much of her family’s lives slip through her fingers in recent years.

 

She sees Jon swallow roughly and draw in a breath. ‘Her name was Ygritte. She was in my platoon and we were together for about two years, but it was difficult and we had to keep it pretty under wraps. Ygritte was sharp and sarcastic and stubborn and reckless and _funny_ , and…’

 

‘Oh, Jon. No,’ Sansa whispers, already understanding where his story is going. She desperately wants to reach out to him and touch him again, but she isn’t sure if it’s welcome, so she bites her lip and keeps her hands to herself.

 

‘We got caught in friendly fire,’ Jon finishes bluntly.

 

‘Both of you?’

 

He nods. ‘Both of us _died_ out there. But they couldn’t bring Ygritte back. They tried, but they couldn’t, but for some reason, they could with me. I was a mess after that, pretty predictably, so they discharged me on medical grounds, although that was probably a lie as there was nothing much _bodily_ wrong with me…’

 

‘ _Jon_ ,’ Sansa breathes, feeling her chest ache for him. ‘Are you okay? Truly?’

 

‘I think that depends on your definition of _okay_ ,’ he says wryly. ‘Physically, I’m fine. Mentally? There’s a lot going on up there.’

 

‘Oh, god, I’m sorry. I’ve completely ruined what should have been a calming couple of weeks away, haven’t I?’ she says, suddenly horrified. ‘I’ve ruined everything.’

 

‘No, Sansa, you haven’t. Please don’t think that. It’s nice to have company. Honestly, I probably would have been pretty lonely out here on my own. It’s weird being here when I spent so much of my childhood in this house. It’s nice to have someone to share that with.’

 

‘I’m sorry about Ygritte.’

 

‘Yeah, me too. All the time.’

 

‘And I’m sorry for what happened to you.’

 

Jon bites at his lower lip before answering. ‘I have panic attacks about it. I should probably tell you in case you see me having one. They’ve been better recently, but I had one this morning, so I don’t know anymore. But, yeah. They’re not pretty.’

 

She reaches out to squeeze his hand, not caring anymore. Jon smiles at her, his eyes crinkled and kind, and _sad_. ‘Can I do anything to help if they do happen?’

 

Jon squeezes her hand back, the pressure both gentle and firm. ‘Honestly? Just what you’re doing right now. I’m usually okay, but sometimes I need a bit of a tug back down to earth.’

 

Sansa wants to embrace him, as he did for her in the kitchen earlier. She moves towards him a fraction, and Jon can probably read it on her face. He opens his arms to her and she scoots closer to him on the couch, crawling once again into his embrace. It’s becoming quite a habit; she thinks bitterly to herself. What a pair they make.

 

Jon’s hand curls over her shoulder, rubbing a soft pattern into the wool of her jumper. She lets her head on his shoulder and for a quiet minute or so they both stare out of the window and watch the raindrops race down the glass. Ghost lets out a whimper and twitches by the fire, his paws scrabbling at the air. It breaks the moment and Jon chuckles.

 

‘He’s dreaming he’s running. Probably halfway across the state in his head.’

 

Sansa smiles. ‘Yeah? Sounds nice. Lucky Ghost.’

  

 Jon gives her side a quick squeeze. ‘You want to watch a movie or something? I can hook up my laptop to the TV.’

 

‘Yeah, okay, that sounds nice.’

 

Jon has to detangle himself from both her and the couch to fetch his laptop from his room and as soon as he’s up Sansa misses the warmth of his body next to hers. She gets up slowly to put on a pot of tea and watches from the counter as Jon fiddles with the HDMI cord and flicks up the Netflix landing page.

 

‘Any preference?’

 

‘Uhm, no death or destruction please.’

 

‘Right, absolutely.’

 

She pours the tea into two mugs as Jon sweeps through a couple of options. He skips through some romcoms and kids movies and eventually pulls up a stand up special from a New York comedian. ‘This okay? It came out last week. I think we could do with a few laughs?’

 

Sansa carries over the mugs on a tray and sets it down on the coffee table. To be honest, she’s not that fussed about what they watch, but the excuse to switch off for a couple of hours sounds too appealing, so she just nods.

 

Jon sets it up to play and then, to Sansa’s surprise, sinks back into the seat on the couch next to her, reaching forward for his mug of tea and then settling back down again. ‘Thanks,’ he says, nodding towards the drink.

 

‘No problem.’

 

There’s a blanket neatly folded on the arm of the couch, and Sansa pulls it towards her, intending to spread it out over her knees, but Jon’s so close to her that it’d be weird if she didn’t offer it to him too. She holds out a corner to him, an unspoken question, and Jon doesn’t even blink before hauling it over the both of them and tucking over both their laps, soft and cozy.

 

‘You know it’s times like these I really reconsider not buying one of those awful blanket onesie things on the late night shopping channels. I feel so relaxed right now.’

 

Sansa pauses with her tea halfway to her mouth. ‘Do you mean…. A slanket? The blanket with sleeves thing?’

 

Jon takes a slurp of his tea and nods. ‘Yeah, one of those, exactly.’

 

Sansa can’t help the snort that escapes her. ‘Now I would pay to see you in one of those.’

 

Jon throws her a faux offended look. ‘What? They’re very practical. I’ve watched a lot of late night shopping and everyone who sells them looks so comfy.’

 

That makes Sansa laugh and Jon smiles too, the corners of his eyes creasing and a dimple jumping on his cheek that Sansa had never noticed before. It’s only when Jon’s returned his attention to the TV and his mug of tea that Sansa realizes that she’s seen the adverts too, always ridiculously late at night or early in the morning, when she’d turned on the TV in a desperate bid to lull herself back to sleep through a nasty period of insomnia.

 

Maybe, miles away, Jon was watching the very same thing. And maybe for the same reason.

 

* * *

 

They burn through two comedy specials, at least 3 episodes of friends, and countless mugs of tea before Jon extracts his arm from under the blanket to grab the remote and hit pause. He has to nudge Sansa slightly to do so and she pushes herself off from where she’s folded into his side, her head resting on his chest. She hadn’t meant to, but the warmth of the room and the laugh track from the TV had meant her eyelids kept on sliding closed, her head lolling to the side. Jon had taken pity on her and pulled her down against him.

 

She had felt his heart beating beneath his chest, the soft cotton of his t-shirt against her cheek, the warmth of his skin. That had been a time, however brief, that she wouldn’t have felt that. God, but she doesn’t want to imagine it. Where had she been when Jon was lying in a military hospital, cold to the touch? At her desk, filing (and deleting) lawsuit complaints?

 

“I think my eyes might become square if we watch any more TV.’

 

‘Mom always used to say that. She used to tell Arya ‘don’t make that face or the wind will change and you’ll be stuck like that’.’

 

‘Yeah, I remember. And if I remember, Arya just used to roll her eyes harder.’

 

‘Sounds about right.’

 

She almost asks Jon about Arya. They were always close as kids and she hasn’t checked in with Arya in a while. She works as a personal trainer in a private gym in Boston, but other than that, Sansa admits she hasn’t kept tabs on her little sister at all. She bites her tongue though, not wanting to bring the mood down yet again.

 

‘I know we had it a couple of days ago, but pizza?’ Jon says with a shrug. ‘I don’t know about you, but all this laziness has not motivated me to cook.’

 

‘Pizza sounds good. When in Rome, etc.’

 

Jon chuckles. ‘Exactly. Or when in the vicinity of Joe’s Pizza Place. I swear, not even anything in Boston can beat it. I’ll ring for delivery.’

She has to fully let him up from the couch this time. She can hear him in the hallway, ordering her something with pineapple again. Sansa pulls herself to her feet, collects the mugs and dumps them in the sink, before padding back into her bedroom. Her phone is where she left it, under the pillow. When she turns it on, her fingers are shaking. There is a barrage of texts, which she doesn’t read, instead she scrolls through her contacts and setting a trembling finger over the dial button.

 

The sound of the dial tone sets her teeth on edge and she almost hangs up. Almost.

 

‘Sansa?’

 

‘Hello, Petyr.’

 

‘Sansa sweetheart, you had us all so worried! Nobody could get through to you, my dear.’

 

Petyr’s voice is low and slick and sugared, as it always is. Sansa swallows the bile rising in her throat in order to answer.

 

‘I’m sorry.’

 

‘You can apologize later. We just want you back home. Ramsay says you’re not in the city. Tell me where you, just say the word, and whatever’s happened, we’ll fix it.’

 

Petyr probably thinks she’s wasted after a party, or stuck in some guy’s flat, perhaps holed up in a motel room, she realizes. A good weekend gone wrong. That’s how little he thinks of her.

 

‘No.’

 

‘No? Sansa, darling, what’s going on? Just tell me where you are and I’ll call a car for you. One of the Lannister drivers will pick you up, wherever it is, I promise.’

 

Sansa notes that he doesn’t offer to come himself.

 

‘No,’ she says again, her voice firmer. Somehow, speaking to Petyr isn’t as frightening as the thought of doing it was. Before, she was worried about them being able to trace the call, but she realizes that if they had the technology to do that, they would have been able to trace her mobile the second she turned it on, and no one is banging down the Lakehouse door just yet. And, if they do come, they’ll not be able to hurt her with Jon there, not as a witness. She’s certain now that Jon would never let them.

 

‘Sansa, what is the meaning of this? Ramsay is sick with worry, and I’ve even had Cersei calling when you didn’t come into work. Stop this nonsense. It’ll be okay, I promise.’

 

‘Petyr, I’m not coming back to work. I _quit_. You can forget about my owed wages, I don’t care. I’ll pay back the college money. But I quit. I can’t work for the Lannisters anymore. Tell Cersei. Tell Tywin, I don’t care.’

 

There’s a slight pause while Petyr absorbs this new change in conversation, but then his honeyed rumbling voice is back in her ear.

 

‘Sansa, be rational, darling. Don’t throw away this opportunity. You’re not thinking clearly, obviously. Is it Joffrey? Is it things with Joffrey? Sansa, I know you had some romantic ideas about him, but sweetheart, sometimes relationships just don’t work out. And you have Ramsay now. He’s been _so_ worried.’

 

A frankly maniacal laugh escapes her lips and there’s a crackle at the end of the phone as Petyr pauses. Then, his voice drops even lower.

 

‘Sansa, you can’t just break away that cleanly. You’re a sensible girl, you know that.’

 

‘I don’t care.’

 

‘They’ll come after you,’ he says, his voice now a low growl of a warning. Sansa straightens her shoulders, even though there’s no one in the room to see.

 

‘You mean you’ll all come after me.’

 

‘Don’t do this, Sansa. These are not people you want to make an enemy of, I promise you.’

 

Sansa’s mouth tightens into a thin line. ‘They’re already my enemies. I found Robb’s case file. The drunk driver who got off. Did you really think I wouldn’t? Tell Cersei I quit.’

 

There’s a click as Petyr hangs up and the line goes dead. Sansa slides her phone off again and throws it onto her bed. She’s breathing hard, her fist clenched. For a second she stands and works on unclenching all the muscles in her currently rigid with rage, a trick she picked up somewhere, maybe the internet.

 

Rage is better than fear though. She recognizes that.

 

A minute later and there’s a knock on the doorframe and Jon’s leaning against the doorjamb, car keys in his hand.

 

‘They’re kicking up a fuss about delivery, so I said I’d go collect. I’ll be quick, I promise.’

 

Sansa glances outside, where the rain is now hammering against the window. ‘Be careful, please. The roads might be bad.’

 

Jon’s mouth ticks upwards into a smile, and he gives a tiny mock solute. ‘I will do.’

 

Just before he turns around he jerks a chin at the room in front of him. ‘Never been in the master suite before. Pretty nice digs you’ve got.’

 

‘We can swap if you like,’ Sansa says quickly. ‘I don’t mind. You should have it, really.’

 

But Jon just shakes his head. ‘No, no, my room is more than fine. Just weird, being in here. As a kid, I never came near this room.’

 

‘My mom?’

 

He shrugs, fiddling with the keys in his hand. ‘Yeah. She scared me a little,’ he says flatly, before adding, ‘it’s better now, though, of course.’

 

But there’s something in his voice that Sansa doesn’t trust, something small and despondent. She wonders if her mother thinks of Jon living in her basement and then thinks of the empty bedroom upstairs, at all.

 

‘Please drive safe,’ she says again. Jon just nods at her. She hears the click of the front door in the hall behind him and the revving of his truck engine in the drive and wishes he were back home already. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm theawants on tumblr, come say hi! Trying to commit myself to this fic. I've planned it all out and have written the first few chapters! Reviews are love <3


End file.
